61. Foo Fighters
Invictus Games Closing
4 September 2014
I have been to plenty of gigs where the audience ended up looking like they’d just crawled out of the trenches at the Somme, but at the Invictus Games closing ceremony, a fair few had, or at least, the modern-day equivalents. This was the event for wounded service personnel, spearheaded by our favourite wayward royal, Prince Harry, who had, in a remarkable character arc, swapped inappropriate cosplay and gutter-press headlines for something genuinely useful.
With VIP tickets secured, my pal and me had a prime view of the action, namely, watching the ginger prince amble about, shaking hands and chatting with veterans in a manner that was actually quite touching. Against all odds, my opinion of him ticked up several notches.
Then came the music. After the obligatory speeches and a brief hostage situation involving Bryan Adams wielding that song like a blunt instrument, the first band of the evening appeared. And in that moment, one question loomed large: Hadn’t these poor, wounded veterans suffered enough? Because here, in what could only be classified as a crime under the Geneva Convention, someone had decided to inflict The Kaiser Chiefs upon them, and I briefly ponder whether being subjected to sustained mortar fire in Kandahar was better or worse than having to listen to Ruby? At least a mortar attack would have been over quicker.
But then, at last, redemption. The Foo Fighters arrived, and suddenly all was forgiven. I’d never seen them live before, and I’d always wondered if my affection for them was born out of a general love for Dave Grohl (the nicest man in rock™) and lingering Nirvana nostalgia, or whether I liked their music. Conclusion? I quite like the music. But I love watching them play.
And how could you not? Pat Smear, looking like he’d been teleported straight from a 1977 punk squat, slung his guitar so low it was practically scraping the floor, while Taylor Hawkins thrashed at his drum kit like Animal from The Muppets on an espresso bender. But the real star, of course, was Grohl himself, hurtling through an (allegedly short) eleven-song set with all the manic enthusiasm of a teenager who’d just discovered Red Bull. And so, as we spilled out into the night, ears ringing, spirits lifted, one thing was certain: the organisers were almost forgiven for subjecting us to the Kaiser Chiefs. Almost.